The Somnambulists
by actressen
Summary: "Hold on, hold on," John interrupted, trying to process all the new information, "are you saying that this is what happened to Clements? That he sleepwalked out a window?". In which Moriarty becomes interested in the world of dreams, John never gets any sleep, and Sherlock still lacks tact. Crossover with INCEPTION. *GOING TO BE RE-VAMPED SHORTLY, SEE NOTICE*
1. The Architect

**NOTES: **In the end, this will probably end up being a super-crossover. But because it focuses on the Sherlock characters and more of a Sherlock-esque story line, I decided not to put it in the crossover section. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

**The Architect**

When living with Sherlock Holmes, one had to be prepared for just about anything. Body parts in the fridge, poisonous jellyfish in the tub, exotic weapons scattered around casually like coffee mugs—every day a new adventure.

So really, waking up to a gunshot at 4 AM shouldn't have startled him. But it did. Right out of his bed and onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet and rushed down the stairs, ready for anything, and anyone.

"What's happened?" he blurted out immediately. Sherlock sat on the sofa, looking at—wait, was that _his _laptop? Oh, bugger it—a computer screen, but pointing a recently fired gun at the blasted yellow smiley face that marred the wallpaper.

"We've got an eight, John. Maybe even a nine," Sherlock said excitedly, closing the computer and bounding off the couch. John was amazed to find that he was (properly) dressed in a button-down and slacks, no ratty bathrobe in sight.

"What?" John's sleep-addled mind could only really handle one concept at a time, and while Sherlock had been talking he had been distracted by the fact that Sherlock was properly dressed on a week day before noon.

"Honestly, John. A _case_. And not just any case—an _interesting _one. Might even be something new, John. _New_. Do you know how often that happens? Never."

Rushing over to the coat rack, he put on his signature scarf before proceeding to rush erratically around the room. Looking for something, apparently, even though John couldn't fathom what.

"And the gun?"

"I needed you up."

"You couldn't just—"

"Too far."

"But Mrs. Hudson—"

"Zimovane, John. She'd sleep through an air raid. Honestly, keep up."

By now, Sherlock was midway through buttoning up his signature coat and John was still staring at him dumbly in his pinstripe boxers and undershirt.

"Come on, John. Scotland Yard awaits!"

Honestly, he should have known better than to expect a full night's sleep.

* * *

"Freak's here. Brought his dog."

It may have been half-past four in the morning, but Donovan was still charming as ever. Sherlock ignored her, as always, and walked briskly to the crime scene without waiting for an invitation. John followed closely behind, still completely in the dark as to exactly what was going on—even more so than usual.

"Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Really, Lestrade. A case like this? I couldn't possibly stay away." Sherlock quickly put on a pair of latex gloves, ignoring the body suits. Body suits were for amateurs.

"Have your idiots touched anything yet?"

"No."

"Good. Get rid of them. I need some time alone with the scene before they muck it up."

John looked around, trying to get an idea of exactly where they were—something that was easier said than done in the dimly-lit night. They appeared to be at a hotel—midrange price, completely unremarkable, mediocre location. Approximately fifteen storeys tall. Judging by where people were gathered, the body appeared to be around the corner, on the right-hand side of the building.

Indeed, once they turned the corner they saw a body—from what John could see, most likely a man, but it was hard to tell in the dark. The police had brought lamps, but the hard lights provided little help from a distance.

He could see the gears in Sherlock's head turning, and it seemed to him that Sherlock had already deduced most of what he needed before he even reached the body, because once he did he showed minimal interest in it.

Once he got close enough to do a proper inspection, John discovered that his earlier guess was indeed correct—the victim was a man, seemingly mid to late 30s, dressed in his pajamas, who had clearly fallen from a great height. John winced. He had seen many corpses in his life, but deaths from falling always struck a nerve with him. The gruesomely crushed bones and splattered brains lying in a pool of congealing blood made it clear that the poor sod was gone the second he hit the ground.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, pulling the Detective Inspector's attention from Donovan and Anderson.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I must see his room. Now. Time is, as always, of the essence."

Lestrade sighed. "We're still in the process of figuring out which room the victim was staying in."

"Please tell me you are not truly as ignorant as you currently appear to be," Sherlock berated, looking personally insulted.

"He has no identification on him, Holmes. It's not quite that simple," Anderson argued, speaking as if talking to a child.

"Is your brain truly that small or do you just not use it? He's in his _nightclothes_, for Pete's sake, of course he doesn't have any identification on him! Or do you sleep at night with your wallet in your boxers?"

Lestrade snickered.

"Still," Sherlock continued, "the victim's room is obvious. Based on the location of the body, there are only four windows which he could have fallen from. The only one high enough, based on the damage done to the skull, is the open window on the fourteenth floor, which, if I am correct—which I almost certainly am—should be the fourth door on the right down the rightmost corridor."

No one made any obvious indication of agreement or otherwise, but Lestrade did head in the direction of the hotel's entrance, muttering something about asking the front desk for keys. Sherlock followed along briskly, his coat billowing behind him.

"Come along, John."

However, once they reached the lobby, Sherlock veered to the left while Lestrade continued straight. John looked at Sherlock questioningly—particularly once he realized they were headed towards the lifts—but continued to follow silently. It was only once the door closed that he succumbed to his curiosity.

"What are we _doing_, Sherlock?"

"Isn't it obvious? We're investigating a crime scene."

"We don't have a key."

"Who needs a key?"

The lift stopped, and Sherlock was down the hall, kicking the door open, before John could even think of a response. He rolled his eyes as the door hit the wall with a bang and Sherlock let out a loud whoop.

"Why, exactly, can you manage to do this but can't get your lazy arse to Tesco?"

"Tesco is _boring_, John. This isn't." Sherlock surveyed the room quickly before settling his eyes on the desk. "Bingo!"

It didn't take John long to see what had caught Sherlock's eye. There was a message written below a hastily drawn maze on the generic hotel stationary, which read _It's time for a new game (with better carpets)_.

"Moriarty?" John asked incredulously. "It can't be. He's... he's dead. He _blew_ his bloody brains out!"

"I was dead too, John. So was The Woman. We came back." He paused. "We always come back."

"But what does it mean?"

"I don't know what it means, not yet, but I can tell you what it says." He glanced over the note again. "The victim was left handed—he had a prominent writer's callus on the fourth finger of his left hand, yet the slant and the angle, as well as the fact that the pencil was put down on the right side of the paper, indicate that he wrote the note with his right."

Walking over to the unmade double bed, Sherlock flung the pillow to the side unceremoniously.

"Just as I suspected."

"What?"

Sherlock picked up the revealed pistol. "American."

"How could you possibly know—"

"I suspected from the body—his hair was greasy and his skin was spotty, but his teeth were pristine—no one takes dental care more seriously than an American. And this," Sherlock spun the pistol in his hand (they really would have to have a talk about gun safety one of these days), "is an M1911 pistol. Made in America, one of the most commonly found firearms there as well. The fact that he was sleeping with this under his pillow means he was expecting someone."

Sherlock opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a wallet. Just as he began to go through the contents, Lestrade came bounding through the door.

"Sherlock? What—"

"I need five minutes."

"Wait—"

"Five. Minutes. And please do close the door before Anderson gets any ideas and decides to lower the IQ of the room."

Lestrade sighed, but nonetheless closed the door. "So, what have you found?"

"Nash Clements. Thirty-seven. American. Architect, possibly Engineer. Left-handed. Connected with Moriarty, somehow. He was running from someone, or possibly something, but they weren't the one who found him in the end."

"How could you _possibly_ know all that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

John and Lestrade both gave him the same look; the one that said 'no-it-really-isn't-now-get-on-with-it-you-git'.

"First, his driver's license. Name, age, nationality—obviously. Next, the body. He had a prominent writer's callus on the fourth finger of his left hand, and heavy graphite staining on the side of his palm. Now, there are only a handful of professions which require a grown man to work frequently with pencils. Most jobs require the use of a pen, for legal purposes, and almost all record-keeping and the like is done electronically now. He's clearly not an artist—just look at him—which leaves two possibilities: engineer, or architect. Lastly, he had a gun under his pillow. He was worried about something, had anticipated the need to defend himself. If he had encountered who he was anticipating, the gun would at the very least have made it out from under his pillow. Also, such concern for his own safety clearly indicates that he was _not _suicidal, which means this was a murder." Sherlock paused, before suddenly realizing he had forgotten something.

"Oh, and Moriarty's back." He said this as if he were talking about the weather.

"Alri..." Lestrade began his response automatically before he actually had a chance to process the words. "You're shitting me."

"I don't joke."

"He was _dead_!"

"_I _was dead!"

Lestrade rubbed at his temples, feeling the beginnings of a Sherlock-induced headache coming on.

"Alright. But what about the maze, then? And the carpet?"

"Both support my theory that the victim was an architect, but other than that their significance is still a mystery to me. Further research is required. Let's go, John. We're done here."

And there he went, with his popped collar and his cheekbones and his melodrama. For someone who claimed no interest or attraction for members of the opposite sex or otherwise (although the debacle with The Woman left John with the impression that Sherlock, should he ever change his mind, would gravitate towards someone of the opposite sex) he sure did nothing to discourage their attentions.

By the time they left the hotel, the sun had started to rise, and there was a limo waiting for them. If there was any doubt as to who it was for or from, the sight of Mycroft's assistant and her ever-present Blackberry in the back seat made it perfectly clear.

John opened the door, motioning for Sherlock to get in. "After you."

He liked to think that the glare he received in response was Sherlock's way of saying "thank you".

* * *

"You know I prefer texing, Mycroft."

"This information is confidential. Come, I have tea in the lounge."

In the end, they were brought to one of Mycroft's several country homes. Idly, John realized that he had never seen Mycroft in the same place twice.

It was only once they were settled in the lounge with tea—John and Sherlock on the sofa and Mycroft in an armchair—that he finally began to explain.

"We had been anticipating this for a while. It was only a matter of time, after all."

Mycroft could get a gold medal in ambiguity, but John had learned better than to ask. The Holmes brothers seemed to have their own language in which insignificant words meant various significant things.

"So who was Nash Clements?"

"You mean you don't already know?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Thirty-seven, single, architect, American, left-handed. But what did _Moriarty _want with him?"

"Do you remember the death of energy tycoon Maurice Fischer in 2009?"

"No," Sherlock answered bluntly at the same time that John answered, "Yes."

"Really, Sherly, it would serve you well to keep up with current events. But, to make a long story short, his son, Robert, dissolved his empire almost as soon as he inherited it. Now, what could possibly convince the son of one of the wealthiest men in the world to destroy his inheritance?"

"Blackmail."

"Not in this case. And I couldn't figure it out at first either," he added, seeing the disbelief on Sherlock's face. "So I talked to Fischer's greatest rival, a Mr. Saito, who was left with a near monopoly over the world's energy supplies. And he told me. Tell me, have you ever heard of Somnacin?"

"A sedative, is it not?"

"It is, but it's also so much more. It was formulated for use in American military training. Injected intravenously by a device known as a PASIV, it allowed trainee soldiers to share dreams—the ultimate simulation. An architect would design the world of the dream—a battlefield, of course—and then the soldiers would be brought in. They could shoot and stab and kill each other, with no risk of inflicting actual damage. It seemed ideal, but they didn't anticipate the long-term reactions. In the end, somnacin is a drug. Soldiers became addicted—they lost the ability to dream without it. More seriously, soldiers who underwent dream-share training started to lose their sense of reality. It was a mess. The program was pulled, and the use of somnacin and PASIV devices were ruled illegal in most parts of the world. But that, of course, has never stopped anyone. You would know, wouldn't you, brother?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared and a muscle in his jaw twitched but he managed to refrain from retorting.

"Dream-sharing became a tool. A new form of espionage. You could literally get inside peoples' heads, steal their ideas. It was called extraction. But Fischer's case was different. Something much more difficult, and much more dangerous. Inception. Saito managed to gather a team that was able to plant an idea in Fischer's head—the idea to dissolve his father's empire. As far as we know, this is the only case of a successful Inception. Recently we've noticed Moriarty and his criminal web displaying interest in dream-share technology. They've been experimenting with sedatives, weaponizing them. Our inside man had told us they recently had been focusing on a compound which allows them to not only invade a person's mind, but control their body."

"Hold on, hold on," John interrupted, trying to process all the new information, "are you saying that this is what happened to Clements? That he _sleepwalked _out a window?"

"That's exactly what he's saying John. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

Sherlock paused.

"What is it that you need from me, Mycroft?"

"Moriarty's building a team, and he wants the best. He'll go after the Inception team, and he won't stop until he finds them. I don't know who they are. As far as we know, no one does—besides Mr. Saito, of course. But if anyone can find them, it would be Moriarty. Or you. _And it needs to be you_."

"But how does Clements fit into all this?" John asked, feeling like a dunce. Clearly, he was missing something.

"Moriarty's sources lead him to Clements. He claimed to work with the Inception team, they tested him, he failed. And then he took a tumble out of a window fourteen stories high."

"Can you do this for me Sherlock?"

"Fine. And once I find them, what happens then?"

"Hopefully, they can shed some light on what Moriarty plans to do with a sleepwalk-inducing sedative and why he would need the world's best extraction team."

They finished their conversation with pleasantries—at least, as pleasant as the Holmes brothers were capable of being—before Mycroft walked them to the limo (Anthea and her blackberry in the back seat—John wondered as to whether or not she had even left the car at all).

"Just tell the driver where you want to go."

John sighed as he slid onto the leather seats—his lack of sleep finally catching up with him.

"221—"

"St. Barts. Quickly, time is of the essence."

John groaned and sunk further into his seat. "Sherlock, can't this wait? Molly and her corpses will still be there tomorrow."

Sherlock looked at John reproachfully.

"No, John. I need to figure out exactly what we're dealing with here."


	2. The Cousin

**The Cousin**

Molly Hooper was going on vacation.

Now, while this would be a quite unremarkable occurrence for a normal person because going on vacation was something normal people did, this was not a normal person. This was _Molly Hooper_, who hadn't taken a day off—for a vacation or otherwise—in all of her almost-four years of employment at St. Bart's, and could barely be kept from returning to the lab during her weeks off in the summer.

Today was her last day of work before heading off, and she was excited. This time tomorrow she would be on a plane, making her way across the ocean. While she finished her report on a Mr. Nathan Daniels (heart attack), she wondered as to why she didn't do this more often. Maybe it was because she didn't have anyone to travel with. Maybe it was because she worried—pathetically—that Sherlock would find a new pathologist, a better pathologist, in her absence. He could be an arrogant sod—more often than not those words would be the best to describe him. He would manipulate her with compliments and smiles, and, shamefully, she let him. But she didn't believe that this was the real Sherlock. No, this was the product of a lack of social skills perfected over a lifetime of isolation.

The real Sherlock Holmes was the man who jumped off a building to save his friends, knowing there was a greater chance that he would die than that he would live, despite Molly's help. The man who pushed people away, not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. She had always seen this man in Sherlock, but in taking care of him after The Fall she actually got to _know _him. And then he decided that his return was necessary, and he returned to his usually cold and guarded self. But she had seenwho he really was—she had changed his bandages, woken him from nightmares, washed blood from his clothes (and _her _sheets)—and could no longer deny that she loved him with her whole heart. Was it a good choice? Probably not, but her brain hadn't exactly been consulted on the matter.

Her rather embarrassing pop-rock ringtone roused her from her musing. She scrambled to answer her phone before any of her coworkers had a proper chance to hear it.

"Hullo?"

_"Mols?"_ Of course, Molly recognized her cousin's voice the second she heard it.

"Ari! Wasn't expecting to hear from you."

_"I was wanted to make sure that everything was settled for tomorrow. Or really, my husband did. You know how he is." _

Molly, hearing the obvious smile in her cousin's voice, couldn't suppress the slightest pang of jealousy. Of course, she was happy that Ari was happy, but nothing made her feel more like a budding spinster than seeing her (younger!) infamously free-spirited, bohemian cousin "settled down", so to speak, with a young son and a husband she adored. (The white picket fence, however, was absent; the notion of her cousin having a house with such a thing was quite like seeing a fashionista wearing white shoes after Labor day—it simply _didn't _happen).

"Yeah, yeah. Not to worry, I'm all packed," that was, of course, a total lie, "I've got my tickets—and summer clothes, of course—and I'm really excited." Her later statements, however, were completely true.

_"I am, too. It's been ages, hasn't it?"_

"It really has. How is Charlie doing? He was just a baby when I saw him last."

_"He's doing great. Looking forward to seeing Auntie Molly." _

Molly smiled at that. She and her cousin had both been only children, and they were the closest thing to a sibling either one had—and the closest thing Charlie had to an Aunt.

"I'm looking forward to seeing him too. How about—"

"MOLLY! Your assistance is required in the laboratory, this is urgent." Sherlock's deep, booming voice startled Molly, who couldn't see the detective himself except as a blur rushing past her window.

_"Molly? Molly, what was that?"_

"It's fine, really. It's just—"

Molly could see John Watson heading up the hall, in the same direction as Sherlock (moving much more slowly, however). Upon noticing her, however, he stopped in her doorway.

"And by that he means 'please'," he apologized on Sherlock's behalf before continuing down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, Ari, but I've got to go."

_"It's _him_, isn't it? Molly, you really should—"_

Molly hung up before her cousin could finish her argument, throwing her phone back in her desk drawer and throwing on her lab coat.

* * *

"I need a blood sample from Nash Clements. Thirty-seven years of age. Should have arrived within the past hour."

Sherlock didn't look at her as he spoke, instead focusing his attention on finding and prepping the equipment he would need. John sighed from his place, sitting in at a lab bench in the far corner of the room, well out of the path of Hurricane Sherlock, and gave the detective a pointed look (that he, of course, didn't even notice). Molly found his attempts sweet, but if Sherlock's blunt lack of tact was going to drive her away it would have done so already. She was no longer offended by it. Disappointed, maybe, but not offended.

She gave John a slight smile to show him that she was alright before leaving in search of a corpse by the name of Clements.

* * *

"You really should treat her better, Sherlock."

"I'm sure you realize by now, John, that I am not one to be bothered with social niceties."

"Of course I do. And usually I don't say anything—though I do feel like punching you, quite honestly—but that woman saved your _life_. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Sherlock paused, some undecipherable emotion flickering in his eyes.

"Of course it does, John," he answered quietly, "too much."

John fully intended to inquire more about what Sherlock meant, but quickly thought the better of it once Molly re-entered, a vial of dark-red blood in her hand and a smile on her face.

Sherlock held out his hand in a silent request for his required sample, finally stopping to actually look at Molly, before quickly freezing. John saw his brows furrow slightly into the easily recognizable 'I'm deducting and likely to saw something of extremely poor taste' face, and had to fight the strong urge to slam his head against the table.

"You're happy. Why are _you _happy?" Sherlock asked, as if the mere thought of the idea was ludicrous.

"What do you mean? I'm—"

"You're always smiling, not happy," Sherlock corrected, anticipating what she would say, "fake and genuine smiles use the muscles of the face differently. Your smiles are almost always fake, but not this time."

"I'm going on vacation," Molly said, boldly and unrepentant, "my flight's tomorrow. I'll be gone two weeks."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" John hadn't heard Molly so angry since the Christmas debacle nearly two years prior.

"I require your assistance, cancel it."

Molly gave an incredulous laugh.

"I've canceled dates for you. I've come in at two in the morning for you. But I'm not canceling on my cousin. She's the closest family I have." She looked over at John, clearly deflated, "I think I'm going to go, now. I—I have some packing to do."

She headed out briskly, only stopping briefly in the doorway. "Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Molly. Enjoy your trip."

She gave him a genuine, but sad smile.

"Thanks."

And she left, quietly closing the door behind her. John sighed, glancing over his brilliant and oblivious friend, fiddling with blood and several substances he couldn't identify in a Petri dish. Molly had said her trip would be two weeks, but John wasn't sure she was coming back.

"You just might have done it this time, Sherlock," he muttered.

Sherlock wasn't listening.


	3. The Travelers

**The Travelers**

"Goddamnit!" Sherlock cried, throwing a (luckily empty) beaker against the wall, where it shattered. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if trying to soothe a headache.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked, not looking forward to receiving an answer. When Sherlock was worked up enough to throw things, he knew it was bad.

Sherlock mumbled some unintelligible response.

"What was that, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, John!" Sherlock groaned, "I. Don't. Know!"

The times Sherlock Holmes admitted to not knowing something were few and far between, so John couldn't help but savor the moment.

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'?" John couldn't help but tease his frequently arrogant and sometimes unbearable friend.

"I mean I _don't _know! The victim had clearly been drugged—pinprick clearly visible on the left wrist, fresh—but there weren't any drugs in the room—administered by someone else, clearly—also leaving me to believe he wasn't a junkie, not in the usual sense, at least. I've located a foreign substance in the blood, some traces of zolpidem, but I can't identify it," Sherlock sighed in his defeat, "I think that we'll have to get help on this one, John."

"I don't mean to inflate your ego, Sherlock, but if you can't identify it, maybe no one can."

"Maybe, but I don't think so. But I have a feeling you'll be needing your passport, John." Sherlock left the room without further explanation (or cleaning up, for that matter. He did realize Molly wasn't there to pick up after him, didn't he? Then again, this was Sherlock, so he probably didn't). John was left with no other option but to chase after him, because Sherlock was not the type to wait.

* * *

John found Sherlock out in the street, waving his phone in the direction of a security camera of a nearby bank.

"What on _earth_ are you doing?"

"Contacting Mycroft," Sherlock answered, "do keep up, John."

Honestly, the only thing possibly more confusing than the Holmes brothers themselves was the relationship they had with each other.

"I know your brother keeps his eye on everything, but do you really think—"

John's doubts were cut off by the shrill ring of Sherlock's phone. He couldn't decide whether he should be impressed or disturbed by Mycroft's Big Brother-esque display of power, so he settled on a healthy mix of both.

"All webs have centers. Where is it?" Sherlock asked cryptically as soon as he got the phone to his ear. As far as the Holmes brothers went, it was a warm greeting. By the time he spent listening to the other end of the line, he would guess that Sherlock had gotten much more of an answer than he had wanted.

"John will be with me, brother. Besides, you should know that I have no desire to spend more time in my mind than I already do. Just tell me," Sherlock demanded, having run out of his meager supplies of patience.

"Good. I do not expect your current diet to last the week, and you shouldn't either," Sherlock deadpanned, wasting no time in hanging up. He turned to John, the signature 'I have a case' twinkle in his eyes.

"What are your feelings on Kenya?"

* * *

It didn't take long for Molly to remember why she didn't like traveling. The eleven-hour flight was grueling: turbulence gave her near panic attacks, there was always a child crying, and it was impossible to sleep through the ordeal between the noise and the cramped space in coach. Her cousin had offered to pay to upgrade her to first class, but in her pride she had refused—and now, of course, regretted it terribly.

Then, after getting off the plane, she still had to deal with the pain that was US customs. In her luck she was chosen "randomly" for further inspection. Tired and crabby, she could barely keep from snapping at the worker who searched through her bag at a snail's pace as he bombarded her with a series of questions. Where was she coming from? Where was she going? Why was she going there? Who was she going with? Did she have more than the equivalent of 10,000 US dollars in her possession? (Honestly, did she _look _like she did?)

Once the Customs worker finally decided she was indeed a working-class Englishwoman with the intention of visiting family, not wreaking havoc, she finally made it to the crowded meeting ground that was International Arrivals, in one piece despite being slightly worse for wear. Now she just had to find her cousin. After glancing about the crowd, however, she decided it might be a better idea to look for her cousin's much taller husband. It proved unnecessary, though, as her cousin found her first.

"Molly!"

She turned in the direction of her cousin's voice, and sure enough, there she was, just as Molly remembered her. She wore a patterned silk scarf, draped loosely around her neck, and a crimson summer cardigan—her signature pieces. She balanced a toddler on her hip, and was trying to convince him to wave at his aunt. Her husband, who stood over a head taller than her, had an endearing look of amusement on his usually stoic face. Wearing an impeccably tailored three piece suit and his dark hair gelled back, he looked slightly out of place.

Molly's cousin pulled her into a one-armed hug as soon as she reached them, while her husband took her bag (he had made Molly an offer she couldn't refuse). The toddler appeared startled at the sudden contact with an unknown being, but didn't put up a fuss. He just looked up at her with his large brown eyes.

"Mawlly?" The toddler asked his mother, pointing at the newcomer.

"Very good, Charlie! This is Auntie Molly," her cousin praised. Suddenly feeling bashful, the toddler turned and buried his face in his mother's scarf.

"He remembers me?" Molly asked, surprised.

Her cousin shrugged. "He loves looking at pictures, and Arthur always points out the people. And I tell him about you, of course. It doesn't surprise me that he picked it up."

"We should get going, Ariadne," her husband interrupted, having checked his watch and realized it was nearing rush hour. He adjusted Molly's bag on his shoulder before gesturing towards the doors on the far left. "The car's this way. And it's good to see you again, Molly," he added, completely sincere.

Molly could only smile as her cousin started filling her in on what had changed since her last visit. It had been a long time since she had felt truly wanted, and Molly had forgotten what a wonderful feeling it was.

* * *

It didn't take John long to remember why he didn't like traveling. The eleven-hour flight was incredibly boring, and Sherlock was dreadful company—he had retreated to his mind palace before they had even put on the mandatory safety video, and John doubted he would return before they landed on the tarmac in Mombassa. They didn't even have an attractive stewardess; they had a steward, and despite popular opinion, he was still _not _gay.

Left with nothing else to do, he decided to follow Sherlock's lead and go to his own mind palace, (which, compared to the detective's, was better described as a mind shack) and go over what Sherlock had informed him earlier, before they boarded the flight.

* * *

_ "What's in Kenya?" he asked, despite knowing that Sherlock would tell him regardless. _

_ "Mombassa is in Kenya, John—the epicenter of the dream-sharing world."_

_ "So we're going all the way to East Africa just to find a chemist?"_

_ "Precisely." _

_ He sighed, wondering yet again how a man who was too lazy to dress properly more than half the time could also be so motivated as to travel across continents just to ask a question. _

_ "Alright. When are we leaving?"_

_ "Now." _

_ "Hold on. What do you mean _'now'?_"_

_ "Our flight leaves in two hours. It might be a better use of your time, John, to try to get a taxi."_

_ "But we haven't packed! I don't even have my bloody _passport_ with me!" he spluttered. _

_ "Nor do I. Mycroft will handle it," Sherlock responded, getting into a taxi that had finally stopped for them. _

_ He followed suit, wondering why he was even surprised by anything anymore._

* * *

Once they finally got off the plane and into the swelteringly hot city, John marveled at how different it was from his mental image of a "crime capital" of the world. In his head, it was a dark, shady place like something out of a noir film—cold, most likely, so everyone could walk around wearing trench coats with the collar popped dramatically (sort of like a certain detective he knew). But Mombassa was swelteringly hot, filled with color and light and culture and other nice, exotic things. Like the sun. The more John thought about it, the more he decided he preferred the reality. He had never been in a warm-weather climate with Sherlock before, and it would be interesting to see the detective at work without his signature outfit (even he wouldn't be crazy enough to wear one of his wool scarves here).

"So," John started, looking around the streets packed with vendors, customers, and playing children, "how exactly do you plan to worm your way into the criminal underworld? I'm guessing there won't be a sign."

"Simple, John. I will, as always, make use of one of my many traits which you do not possess."

John snorted, already well acquainted with Sherlock's oversized ego.

"I meant that as a compliment to you," the detective added, surprising John with the remorseful quality of his voice, "this time." He said the last part hurriedly, obviously attempting to discredit any emotion which seeped through his earlier statement.

* * *

Sherlock brought them to a bar—nothing that seemed too shady, or too chic—and walked right up to the bartender. Instead of ordering a drink, Sherlock showed him his inner left wrist, which John noticed for the first time was riddled with freckle-sized scars clearly visible even on his pale skin. He had known that his friend had been an addict, but until now it had never really sunken in. He didn't pity Sherlock, or anything of the sort, but he was struck by a moment of clarity as to how human Sherlock really was.

There was a flicker of recognition in the bartender's eyes, but he still seemed reluctant. Seeing his hesitation, Sherlock mimed falling asleep, clarifying his intentions. While he still looked somewhat wary, he nonetheless grabbed a paper coaster off a shelf and hastily wrote down an address. After folding the paper in half, he handed it to Sherlock, who accepted it with a grateful nod. Neither said anything throughout this entire exchange, and John had no desire to break the trend. He simply waited for Sherlock to finish his deal and then followed him back onto the streets, which suddenly seemed much louder in contrast.

"What does it say?" John asked, fully aware that Geography had never been a strength of his.

"We're going this way." Sherlock pointed down a side street, and John followed his lead.

* * *

"It's bloody closed!" John lamented, kicking the door for good measure. And he was right—the doors were closed, and through the grimy windows it could be seen that the lights were off and no one was inside. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but hope that he hadn't spent the better part of the day traveling to a dingy alleyway in a Kenyan city only to leave empty-handed. John knew he was no Sherlock, but still he glanced around the alley for any sign of clues. The only other people he could see were homeless, less than a half-dozen in number and seemingly not interested in the two pale oddly-dressed foreigners, or anything else, for that matter.

Sherlock pressed his face against a window of the nondescript building that was supposed to be their destination for a better look.

"Yes, but it shouldn't be," he muttered. "Expensive equipment left out in the open, the surfaces clean, and I can see two housecats—as well as a mouse carcass on the floor, still fresh. The owner did not intend to be gone for more than a couple hours, a day at most."

"He has been gone two days." The speaker, one of those who John had earlier written off as homeless, was an elderly man sitting on an overturned crate a few yards down who spoke with surprising fluidity. He held an air of wisdom and intelligence, though John doubted he had received an education.

"Good," Sherlock said, grabbing the man by the shoulders (John would need to have a talk with him about personal space), "is there anything else you can tell me about this man? Any friends? Any enemies?"

If the man was perturbed by the abrupt physical contact from a stranger, he hid it well.

"May I ask who is asking?"

"Someone with a warning."

The man looked into Sherlock's eyes, as if searching for something.

"His name is Yusuf. He specializes in sedatives, though he rarely partakes of them himself. He is a quiet man, mostly, and a kind man. He has few enemies or friends, but many acquaintances. People respect him."

"Yes, yes, I understand. But is there _anyone_ he is close to, anyone my colleague and I can talk to?"

"He is very close with his cousin, Zara. She lives above the coffee shop she owns around the corner, two doors down," he told them, pointing in the indicated direction, "Tell her Abasi sent you. She will be willing to listen."

Sherlock gave him a curt nod.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

* * *

**AN: **Molly's experiences with Customs are based off my own experience coming back from China last week. I couldn't help but make her share my pain. Also, whether you like or dislike this story, it would mean so much to me if you took a brief second of your time to review. Thanks!


	4. The Husband

**The Husband**

Yusuf's cousin had greeted them warmly, inviting them in for tea (some things are universal).

"How can I help you?" Zara was paler than John had anticipated, almost Middle-Eastern looking. She appeared to be in her thirties, clearly unmarried. Her small apartment above the coffee shop she owned was brightly colored and homey, full of richly textured fabrics and very feminine.

"We're here to inquire about your cousin, Yusuf," Sherlock answered, spooning sugar into his tea.

"Why?" She asked, her voice harder.

"We were sent by Abasi. My colleague and I are looking for some answers regarding a sedative involved in a recent murder," John intervened, knowing tact was not Sherlock's forte, "and were told that the most knowledgeable chemists on the matter could be found here. We asked around—people said your cousin was the best."

Zara seemed comforted by John's words, and visibly softened.

"How long has he been missing?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of his tea.

John had a strong urge to slap him.

"How did you know he was missing?" Zara eyed Sherlock suspiciously, any trust that John might have built up flying out the window.

"Excuse my colleague," John apologized through gritted teeth, eyes narrowed at Sherlock, "he's a detective. Likes to make deductions about people, things. He looked into the window of your cousin's laboratory and reached a few conclusions."

Zara sipped at her tea, obviously still deciding what she was going to say, or whether she was even going to say anything.

"The more you can tell us, the more we can do to help. I assume you're aware of illegal dream sharing?" John eyed Sherlock warily, not quite sure where the detective was going with this.

Zara nodded, but remained silent.

"Taking your cousin's disappearance into consideration with what we already know, we must acknowledge the possibility that your cousin has been kidnapped."

"By who? My cousin was a well-liked, respected man. He has no enemies."

"That very well may be the case, but your cousin also has some very specialized skills that just might have caught the attention of a particular criminal party. I can't say much more than that—the less you know, the less you're at risk—but I'm going to need to ask you some things. Answer them as truthfully as you can, don't leave anything out. The more we know, the better chance we have of finding him."

John had to admit that, despite his earlier slip-up, Sherlock was proving to be in top form. He was pulling off "caring detective" quite so well that even John almost believed him.

"This… this is serious, isn't it?" Zara asked, putting her mug down on the coffee table with shaking hands.

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

Zara looked Sherlock directly in the eye, concerned and determined.

"What do you need to know?"

* * *

Molly was knackered by the time they reached the house, but still so excited that she would finally get a chance to confide in someone about The Fall, and, more importantly, what happened afterwards. She had friends back in England, but none she could confide in. She had issues connecting with people—maybe it was her job, maybe it was her social awkwardness, maybe it was something else—and couldn't bring herself to trust them enough to share anything of true emotional value with them. But she and her cousin had grown up together, and because of that they shared the comfortable ease that came with knowing someone for a long time.

"This is it, home sweet home," Ariadne said, gazing at the house that was a realization of something she had sketched out years ago.

Molly couldn't help but feel slightly inadequate. Their home wasn't a mansion, although it wasn't small either, but it was beautifully designed and styled while Molly herself was wearing a shabby cardigan with penguins on it. The house combined elements of both modern and traditional styles—layered gabled roof, off-white brick, large picture windows—into something which had the warmth of a classic design but a contemporary aesthetic.

"I've done some redesigning since you were here last, and the guest room got moved around a bit," Ariadne told her as she opened the door one-handedly with practiced ease, holding a sleeping Charlie with the other, "let me just put Charlie down and I'll show you."

Molly nodded as Ariadne headed off down the hall, using the time to take in her surroundings. The last time she had visited, they had just moved into the house. Walls still bare, most non-essential items still in boxes, windows still waiting for drapes. Now it was fully furnished and decorated. A few imperfections—a forgotten coffee mug here, an old newspaper there—kept Molly from feeling as if she was in a museum, although there were enough paintings lining the hallway for it to be.

As she inspected the paintings further, she noticed that one of them seemed slightly familiar. When she looked at it closely, she could see the texture of the paint on the canvas. She was no expert, but it was clearly not a print. A reproduction, then. She tried to decipher the signature in the bottom right corner, wondering why artists seemed to insist on writing their names illegibly.

"It's an original," Arthur said from behind her.

Molly had no idea how he did it, but Ariadne's husband had a special talent for moving silently. He was incredibly graceful—in a very masculine way—quite like a cat, or Sherlock when he put his mind to it. And no matter how much time she spent around him, it never failed to startle her.

"It's—it's—what is it, exactly?" Molly asked, trying to identify the subject matter.

"Crucifixion, 1933. Francis Bacon. My grandfather purchased it on a trip to England shortly before the start of the World War II."

Molly looked incredulously at the painting that was easily worth more than her flat and all its contents.

"Showing off your paintings again, Arthur?" Ariadne teased, coming down the stairs.

"Of course. Someone needs to bring culture into this family," Arthur joked back, knowing just how ludicrous his statement was. Ariadne snorted lightly, leaning into her husbands side. The obvious buzzing of a phone broke the happy moment, and Arthur pulled his blackberry out of his jacket pocket. Irritation flashed across his face as he read the message.

"What is it?"

"I've got to head back out again. Kaneda's been texting me all morning. I told him I already had plans, but he claims it's urgent," Arthur apologized.

"It's alright, Arthur. Molly and I could use some 'Girl Time' anyway. But please, try to be back for dinner?"

Arthur kissed her cheek. "I wouldn't miss it."

He moved to leave, but Ariadne pulled him back by his tie, standing on the tips of her toes to give him a proper kiss. After a few seconds she released his tie and pulled away.

"Bye." Her voice was playful, and her husband responded with a roguish grin.

He leaned down for another kiss.

"Bye to you, too."

* * *

"Go back to 2009. Did your cousin do anything out of the ordinary that year? Come into any unexplained money? Leave for any sizeable period of time?" Sherlock asked, thankfully leaving out his usual 'skip the boring parts' ending.

Zara seemed confused.

"What does this have to do with—"

"Remember, the less you know," Sherlock interrupted, knowing where she was going.

She bit her lip and sighed before answering.

"He went on a trip for three months, maybe four. Said it was for a job, didn't say where. I didn't ask, either. I knew he would tell me if he wished, and it was no business of mine." Zara paused, taking a sip of her tea. "But it did strike me as odd, I remember. Yusuf's never been one for traveling."

"Money, maybe?" John supplied, hoping to jog her memory.

"Maybe. But it would have to be more than that. His father died in a plane crash when he was young, you see. To convince him to travel overseas it would have to be something truly special."

Sherlock nodded. "When did he leave?"

"Sometime in April, I think, but it could have been early May. He came back the first week of September—of that I am certain. It had finally started to get warmer, and the tea prices were going down again."

"Did anything out of the ordinary happen around the time your cousin left? Was he in contact with anyone?"

"Someone came here to meet with him, convinced him to take the job. I don't know who, though."

"Is that all?"

"Actually… no, nevermind."

"What? What were you going to say?"

"I'm sure it's got nothing to do with what happened, I don't want to waste your time."

"Nothing is unrelated. Tell me," Sherlock all but demanded. John was struck by the irony of the situation. The detective's most frequent complaint (besides being bored, of course), was that people—perspective clients, witnesses, and the like—always told him too much.

"A day or two before Yusuf told me that he was leaving, there was an incident. A man came running into my shop, pursued by some of Cobol's goons. I was up here at the time, so I didn't see exactly what happened, but I heard the gunshots. When I asked the server working that shift about it, he described the man as English-speaking and white. Blue eyed, he said, and well dressed. Tried to blend in as a customer to lose his pursuers, but it didn't work. Shots were fired but no one was hit, thankfully. He ran out once he realized it wasn't working. I have no idea what happened to him, but if I had to guess I would say he's dead."

"Why would you say that?" John asked, feeling in his gut that this incident was indeed important, but lacked Sherlock's skills of deduction to figure out exactly why.

Zara looked at John as if he had just asked whether or not the sky was blue.

"You cannot hide from Cobol here. This is _their _city. They own most of the buildings—and most of the people. If you speak an ill word of them here, you might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger—you are just as dead either way."

"I'm sorry, but what is Cobol, exactly?"

"Cobol Engineering."

"Is there any chance that they could be involved in your cousin's disappearance?" Sherlock asked, tired of John's obvious questions with their even more obvious answers.

Zara scowled at him as if he had insulted her.

"Of course not! My cousin was a smart man, he would never risk working for them. They do not accept failure. Many have taken the risk and died because of it—just like that man who ran through my shop," Zara lowered her voice, but continued to speak urgently, as if afraid of being heard. "I wish you the best, but I must ask you to leave now. I… I fear I might have said too much."

Sherlock stood up, John following his lead.

"It is quite alright, we have what we need. Thank you for the tea."

And they left.

* * *

"What's up, Mols?" Ariadne asked. She had shown Molly to her room, which was utilitarian, yet tasteful (and quite reminded Molly of a hotel—one of the nice ones that she never stayed in). They were sitting on the silky duvet of the full-sized bed, Molly wringing her hands, slightly nervous.

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, playing dumb. Her cousin was no Sherlock, but she knew her well enough that she didn't need deduction to know something was off.

"When I talked to you a few months back, you said you didn't plan on coming over until Charlie's birthday. But, obviously, you changed your mind. You're always welcome here, don't get me wrong, but it's unlike you. I figured something must have happened."

Molly sighed. "It's Sherlock."

"I asked you what was wrong, not what was obvious," Ariadne deadpanned. "What did he do this time?"

"I'm assuming you heard about his resurrection?"

"It's not every day someone comes back from the dead," her cousin replied. "Let me guess, you had something to do with that?"

Molly nodded. "I was the only one who could help him, Ari. And I had to help. I've never seen him so broken… so honest."

"What has he ever done to deserve your help, Molly?"

"Nothing. But I couldn't just let him die—"

"He _chose _to jump off that rooftop," Ariadne interrupted, "he didn't have to. From what the papers said, Molly, he was in a lot of trouble. I don't know if he actually committed the crimes he was charged with, but it doesn't matter. Even if he's completely innocent, he took the coward's way out. It had its risks, I'm sure, but in the end what he did saved him from having to face the consequences of his actions." Ariadne frowned, "though I will admit I am confused as to why he came back."

"None of it's true! What they're saying about him, what they charged him with. He was framed. _Manipulated_," Molly couldn't help the tears welling in her eyes. "And it's partly my fault."

"Here," Ariadne said, handing her a tissue, "how could it possibly be your fault?"

"I introduced him to the man—the monster—who framed him," Molly dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, and her cousin put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Do you remember Jim?"

"Gay Jim?" Ariadne asked, brows furrowed in confusion, "what does he have to do with any of this?"

"He wasn't real. He was a character played by a criminal mastermind who used me to get introduced to Sherlock. The only real thing about him was the name, Jim Moriarty. He kidnapped those children, hired that actor to make Sherlock look like a fraud," Molly took in a deep, shaky breath, "Sherlock confronted him on the roof of St. Bart's, and Moriarty told him that if he didn't jump off the roof, he would have everyone Sherlock cared about killed. So he jumped."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this before? Molly, if you were in danger Arthur could've—"

"But I wasn't," Molly said, almost sad that this was the case, "because I don't count. Not to Sherlock, anyway. That's why I was able to help him. I gave him the toxin to slow his pulse to a point that it was undetectable by the usual means, falsified the information on his death certificate. And then he stayed in my flat for a few months until he decided to come back from the dead."

"That would explain why you didn't call. But how was it, living with him? Everything you dreamed?"

Molly's cheeks reddened. "Not exactly. He preformed experiments with my makeup in my kitchen using the same utensils that I eat with. One day he decided to see if he could use Toby as a sort of musical instrument because he missed his violin. He didn't sleep or eat for days at a time, lived off of nicotine patches and tea, and badgered me to bring him back body parts from the morgue."

"And did you?"

She looked down at her hands, like a guilty child.

"Molly!"

"I put my foot down on the severed heads," she argued weakly.

Ariadne shuddered. Molly noticed that she seemed unusually pale.

"What did he need body parts for?" She asked, unable to keep herself from asking the question but not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Experiments. He kept them in the fridge—it's not nearly as bad as it sounds, I promise," Molly added hastily, noticing Ariadne no longer looked just pale, but sickly.

"Are you poorly?" Molly questioned, her concern for her cousin more important than her drama with Sherlock.

"No, no, I'm fine." Ariadne waved off her concern, forcing a smile. "This is about you, Molly, not me. We can talk about me later. Tell me more about what happened with Sherlock."

"It's… it's hard to put into words, Ari."

"Just try. I'm not judging your eloquence."

"When I met Sherlock, the first thing I noticed about him was how lonely he looked, not how gorgeous he was. He seemed so burdened, as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I wanted to do whatever I could to ease that burden—I still do. He says cruel things, not because he means to hurt people but because he doesn't want to get hurt. You should have seen his face, Ari, when I told him I would help. Despite his genius he just can't seem to understand that people care for him—he seems to think it's impossible." Molly paused for a second. "He had nightmares, the first few weeks. I'd wake him and he'd cling to me like a little boy until he shook off the dream. Once he came to his senses he always let go and apologize, no matter how many times I told him he didn't need to. He was ashamed—angry at himself, almost—as if emotion were a crime."

"I understand, Molly," Ariadne said softly. It was the first time she hadn't reminded Molly of all the times Sherlock had upset her or pleaded with her to move her attentions to someone else—someone more deserving.

"You do?" Molly asked skeptically, surprised by her cousin's change of heart.

Ariadne nodded.

"I still can't fathom how you put up with him, but I understand." She smiled nostalgically. "When was the first time you met Arthur?"

Molly was surprised by the question, but answered it nonetheless.

"Your engagement party, I think. Why?"

"Because he used to feel the same way—about emotion, that is."

Molly was skeptical, unable to imagine the doting father and loving husband she knew as once being as cold and calculating as Sherlock.

"Arthur's mother died when he was quite young. His father raised him as best he could, but he taught him that caring was a weakness. He never got to be a child, really—his father just didn't know how to show affection, even though I truly believe he loved his son," Ariadne said, absentmindedly twisting the wedding band on her ring finger. "He chose a career that valued logic and reason above all else, where the ability to control and even suppress one's own emotions was the key to success. I think I loved him from the second I met him, but I never thought that he would love me."

"What changed?"

"When I asked him about it, he told me that he had just didn't have the self-control to withhold how he felt any longer." She smiled. "It was there all along, you see. He was just skilled at hiding it."

"A-are you saying that Sherlock's the same?"

"I don't know, Molly. I wish I did," Ariadne admitted, "but I do know that the person we care for the most is also the one who can hurt us the worst. And if someone truly fears getting hurt, it would only make sense that they would keep the person with the potential to hurt them most the furthest away."

* * *

**AN: **We've almost finished the exposition. Soon we can get to the fun stuff. ;). I apologize for any mistakes, I don't have a beta. Let me know if you see anything. Also, please take a second to drop a **review**-I'd love to hear what you think!


	5. The Businessman

**The Businessman **

"So, what now?" John asked as they walked back out onto the crowded streets of Mombassa.

"We're going to Japan."

The prospect of going back onto a plane left John wanting to cry.

"Sherlock, we've only been here for approximately four hours."

"We've got all the information we need. There's a long way we could do this, or a short way. It's simple"

"_You _might think so, but I don't. Please explain."

"The inception of Robert Fischer occurred on the flight from Sydney to Los Angeles, August 25th, 2009. Yusuf Rao left for a job in April of that year, came back the first week of September. His cousin claims that a job would have to be special to convince him to board a plane—this job would be special. It was supposed to be impossible, was it not? Who could resist the impossible?" Sherlock asked, knowing full well that he couldn't. "Also, illegal dream share with the purpose of extraction is common practice. Ergo, they would not need the involvement of a chemist. The job would have had to been out of the ordinary. Taking all of this into account, in addition to the fact that the man in question is now missing, we can safely conclude that he was involved in Inception, and is now most likely in the hands of Moriarty."

"How does this help us?"

"If we can identify when and where Yusuf Rao traveled during this four month period we can, by means of deduction, identify the other members of the team—or at least their aliases. This would be the long approach, which is much more clever. But Moriarty has an advantage over us, so I propose a more direct approach."

"And what, exactly, would that be?"

"We speak with the man who hired them: the CEO of Proclus Global."

"But Mycroft said he already tried but the man refused to speak."

"Exactly, John. That shows sentiment. If we can convince him of the danger they face, he will talk—if not to us, then to them—for the very reason he remained silent before."

"That's—that's wonderful," John yawned, "and is there any chance we can possibly do that by phone?"

* * *

Ariadne and Molly's heart-to-heart came to an end when Charlie conveniently awoke from his nap and began calling for his mother just as Molly turned the tables and tried to get her cousin to talk.

Soothed by the presence of his mother, Charlie quickly calmed down and settled into building castles with blocks on the plush forest-green carpet of his nursery. Ariadne sat next to her son, legs crossed, and worked with him on his creation as Molly looked around in awe. With jungle-themed murals on the wall and lush carpet that might as well have been grass, it was one of the best executed jungle themes that she had ever seen. Eventually her gaze fell on the half-sized bookshelf beside the crib. She couldn't help but comment on the title laid out on the top.

"The Complete Illustrated _Origin of Species_?" Molly asked incredulously.

"It's his favorite," Ariadne shrugged, "but then again, it might be because it has his name on the front."

"Is that why you named him Charles? I never did ask about where his name came from."

"Partly. I liked the name, and Arthur happened to like the works of several men named Charles—Bukowski, Darwin, Dickens—so it made both of us happy. Honestly, I wanted to name him after Arthur, but he wasn't having it. So Arthur became his middle name, and Charles became his first."

Ariadne looked at her watch. "It's nearly five. I really should go pick up dinner. Would you mind watching him while I run out?"

"Of course not," Molly replied genuinely. "You're not cooking?"

Ariadne snorted. "We're trying to pamper you, not punish you. I will admit I've gotten better, but that's not saying much. I shouldn't be gone long; if anything happens, you know my number."

She leaned over, gave her son a kiss on the forehead and ruffled his dark, wavy hair, making him giggle. Molly could see the hesitation in her cousin's eyes.

"It's alright, Ari, go," she encouraged, "we'll still be here when you get back."

"Thanks, Mols."

* * *

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?" The stately Japanese man asked, exuding an air of wealth and power. The second they walked in the room, John had realized they were dealing with an Asian counterpart of Mycroft—the kind of man who owned everything, including the law, and could bend or break it to suit his whims. Of course, that was just about all John noticed, as he had been in three different countries on three different continents in the past thirty-six hours, almost twenty-four of which were spent on planes. At this point even his jetlag had jetlag, and he was certain Molly had seen more attractive beings on the slab.

Actually, there was one more thing that managed to make itself clear in the fog that was John's head: on the near side of grand mahogany desk there were two plush-looking leather armchairs. He sank into one of them gratefully.

"We need to speak with your Inception team, most urgently. Time is of the essence." Sherlock, in usual Sherlock fashion had skipped all customary pleasantries, introductions included, as he took the other seat. Then again, John had come to the conclusion that when you were dealing with people on this level introductions were unnecessary—they just _knew _things. Even after having spent over two years with Sherlock he still found it incredibly creepy.

The Japanese man—Saito, Sherlock had called him in the two-sentence long, no-time-for-questions Why-We-Are-Going-To-Japan speech he had given John as they boarded yet another plane—smiled at Sherlock's bluntness. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties at most, yet his eyes seemed much older, like those of an old man.

"I am sure your brother already told you of his attempts," he responded evenly, "why do you think I would tell you anything different than what I told him?"

"Things have changed since my brother's visit." Sherlock kept his tone equally neutral. "We have good reason to believe they are in grave danger from an interested criminal party."

"And what reason," Saito replied without missing a beat, stressing the last word, "would that be, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yusuf Rao—who was a member of that party, was he not? " Saito remained silent, "has gone missing. We _know _that there is a specific interested party—I am certain you are aware of this—and after speaking with those closest to him I have come to the conclusion is that he was kidnapped."

Saito paused before responding but kept his face blank. In his sleep-addled state John mindlessly contemplated how formidable a poker player this man would be.

"What is your interest in this, Mr. Holmes? You do not have the government affiliations of your brother. Why get involved?"

"It has nothing to do with the crime so much as the criminal. He has spent years trying to destroy me—and succeeded in many aspects, I will admit. I am simply trying to return the favor."

Saito examined them, eyes even flickering over to John.

"Fine," he said, reaching the conclusion that they were genuine. He uncapped a fountain pen and started to write on expensive monogrammed stationery. "Here is the contact information for the organizing member of the team. I will let him decide what to do with your concerns."

He ripped the paper out of the pad, but pulled it away when Sherlock reached out to grab it. "However, I leave it at his discretion as to what happens to you," Saito warned, folding the paper, "If he decides you are a threat, I promise you I will not hesitate in helping him dispose of your bodies."

It was only then that he held out the folded paper for Sherlock to take.

* * *

"So what's it like, Molly, being a pathologist?" Arthur asked, serving himself some of the grilled-chicken Caesar salad that Ariadne had picked up from a local bistro. True to his word, Arthur had returned just as Molly started to lay the table (Ariadne had protested, of course, but Molly insisted). "I'm assuming you didn't do it for the company."

Molly couldn't help but blush at how close Arthur's joke came to the truth.

"It's never boring, that's certain," Molly replied, "though it can put a damper on one's social life."

Arthur chuckled. "I could see that."

"Most men are put off by dates that smell like corpses," she continued, her voice just a smidge too bitter for her words to be purely in jest.

"How about you, Arthur?" Ariadne asked teasingly as she attempted to convince Charlie to eat some of the chicken which she had finely chopped for him, "Would you still love me if I smelled like corpses?"

"I already put up with the snoring and the show-tunes in the shower, so I think I could handle it," he responded without missing a beat.

"Arthur!"

Everyone but Ariadne, including little Charlie, burst into laughter—and even she couldn't keep a smile off her face.

"How about some wine?" Arthur asked, noticing the empty wine glasses on the table. "Ari? Molly?"

"That sounds fantastic," Molly replied sincerely.

"What do you think, Ari? Chardonnay?"

"Sounds about right."

Arthur soon returned from the kitchen with an uncorked bottle and poured three glasses, leaving the half-full bottle on table.

"This really is wonderful, all of this. I didn't realize how much I needed—"

Molly's early "thank you for having me" speech was cut off by the shrill ring of the telephone.

"I'll get it," Ariadne said hurriedly. She rushed to the kitchen—taking her wine glass with her, Molly noticed. From her seat she could see clearly into the kitchen through the connecting doorway, but hers was the only one with that particular view.

So she was the only one who saw Ariadne pour half her wine down the drain.

* * *

**AN: **I know it's short and not much happens, but it's a necessary evil. Everything's finally in place for them to meet! Now for the fun stuff... (right after I write an essay in Spanish, learn Calculus, write four SMART goals for Dance, read all of _Heart of Darkness _plus analyses, research endospores, and all those other not-so-fun things. Oy vey...)

So, if you can, drop a **review**, because it just might make writing a four-page essay on poverty in Spanish before tomorrow (and the accompanying joy of 7:30 AM BC Calculus) just a little more bearable.

Thanks!


	6. The Master Criminal

**Chapter Six: The Master Criminal**

Molly kept her growing suspicions to herself for a day, rationalizing that it was plenty of time to find a flaw in the conclusion she had jumped to. Unfortunately, not only did she not see anything to counter her theory but also found evidence in support of it. So when she woke up on the third day, slowly starting to shake off her jetlag, she decided that she would go and ask Ariadne about it immediately—no easing into it or trying to coax out the truth in a roundabout way—just point blank a la Sherlock.

She found her cousin in the living room, sketching. While Ariadne worked on real buildings—art galleries, hotels, and the like—Molly knew that all but the most complicated projects bored her, and that she spent more time drawing out intricately detailed paradoxes, like Escher. She would sell them sometimes, but it was more for her personal enjoyment than anything else.

"Morning, Molly," Ariadne greeted, looking up from her work. Molly had always marveled at how her cousin could identify peoples' presences around her without looking or hearing anything more than the quietest of footsteps. But then again, Arthur had a knack for moving noiselessly, so it was a skill that probably came in handy.

"Morning." Molly sat down next to her cousin on the leather sofa. "Charlie still asleep?"

Ariadne smiled softly. "Yeah. For a little while, at least. And Arthur's out for a jog."

"Well that's good, because I think we need to talk."

"How about some tea first?" Ariadne asked, getting up from the sofa and heading towards the kitchen.

Molly knew exactly what her cousin was doing, but tea did sound appealing.

"Alright."

"What kind?" Ariadne called back from the kitchen. "We have… well, we have just about every kind you can think of."

"Just Earl Grey is fine, thanks."

Ariadne soon came back with two steaming mugs and attempted to make idle, non-threatening chatter, but Molly wasn't having any of it.

"You're trying to distract me, Ari."

"What?" She forced a chuckle, "why would I do that?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

Ariadne said nothing. Molly knew she was going to have to take the initiative.

"Ari?" Molly asked, lowering her voice even though there was no one around. "Are you pregnant?"

Her cousin said nothing, but nodded slightly, eyes focused on her teacup.

"Does Arthur know?"

Ariadne shot her a pointed look which got the message across just as clearly as a vocal response.

"I've only known for a few days, Mols," she said finally, putting down her tea on the coffee table. "It's just… we weren't planning on having another kid so soon."

"So? I can't imagine Arthur being upset about something like this—he _adores _Charlie, after all. Unless, of course, you are?" Molly looked her cousin in the eyes to gage her response.

"No!" Ariadne's response was instantaneous, and quite a bit louder than she had intended. "No, of course not," she continued quietly, knowing Arthur would most likely be back soon. "And I'll tell him soon. It's just that he worries."

"Worries?"

"His mother died in childbirth." She paused. "You should have seen him when I was in labor," Ariadne continued, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, "I decided to go without the drugs, but I think he really could have used some."

Molly giggled.

"It was actually rather sweet, when he wasn't irritating the crap out of me," Ariadne admitted. She appeared as if she were going to say more, but decided the better of it when she heard Arthur coming in through the front door.

Ariadne made some trivial remark that Molly paid no attention to, not wanting to look blatantly suspicious when Arthur entered the room.

Post-workout Arthur looked about five years younger, in Molly's humble opinion; without the suits and oxfords or copious amounts of hair gel—she never would have imagined that it was _wavy_—he also appeared far less intimidating. But Molly had to admit that he pulled off running shorts and a sweaty t-shirt better than she could a cocktail dress.

Life was really, really unfair sometimes.

"What are you two up to?" He asked good-naturedly, throwing his keys onto the coffee table.

"Talking about you," Ariadne replied teasingly.

"Good things, I hope?"

"Of course."

"Speaking of good things," Arthur said, pulling off his running shoes, "I have a surprise."

Ariadne gave a nervous smile, knowing that a better time to share her news was unlikely.

"Actually, I do too." She took a deep breath. "But you first."

"I set up reservations for you and Molly, next Sunday, at that spa you love."

Ariadne smiled gratefully and Molly was mentally squealing in delight. She couldn't remember the last time she had gotten a massage—particularly if you didn't count that kneading thing Toby would do sometimes.

"And how did you know which massage to book?" Ariadne asked flirtatiously.

Arthur leaned in until his lips almost brushed against her ear.

"You know that I know _exactly _what you like."

Molly found herself blushing although her cousin remained unfazed.

"Now, Ari, what was it that you were going to tell me?" Arthur wondered, changing the subject.

"Well, um," Ariadne cleared her throat, stalling for time although she knew it would only make the difference of a couple seconds, "I'm—"

The doorbell rang, cutting off Ariadne's announcement. Molly couldn't help but shake her head in amusement at her cousin's luck.

* * *

John tried to talk to Sherlock on the taxi ride over, because despite having spent over thirty of the last fifty-odd hours on various planes, he still had the presence of mind to know that not only could this man—completely unknown to them, Saito hadn't even given them his name—make or break the case but put an unflinching end to their lives. "Tried" being the operative word, of course. Just like when he had tried to talk to Sherlock before the Moriarty case—and look at just how well _that _ended.

Eventually he settled for taking some slow, calming breaths as the driver told them they had almost reached their destination.

* * *

"I've got it," Arthur insisted, courteous as ever. Once she was certain he was out of earshot, Ariadne let out an audible sigh.

"You still have to tell him, Ari," Molly reminded her.

"Yes, but not until later. Later is always preferable to now."

Molly rolled her eyes good-naturedly and was considering commenting on her cousin's childish attitude when she suddenly heard a voice—or at least thought she did—that she hadn't expected to hear for another two weeks. She couldn't help but feel ashamed at how pitiful she was. She was imagining his voice now! His lovely, deep baritone voice… and wait—she could have sworn that she just heard John. Could it be…?

"I really should check on Charlie…" Ariadne remarked to no one in particular before noticing her cousin's expression. "What is it, Molly?"

Molly shushed her, trying to hear what Arthur/Possibly-Sherlock-and-maybe-John were saying. She couldn't make out the words, but Arthur sounded tense, which wasn't a good sign.

Molly wasn't the only one who noticed. Ariadne frowned at the sound of her husband's irritated tone.

"Who on earth is he talking to?" She wondered, heading for the door.

"No, stop!" Molly hissed, surprising her cousin.

"What?" Ariadne couldn't make any sense of Molly's reaction, unless… "Do you know who it is?"

Molly hesitated to answer, which in itself answered Ariadne's question.

"It's no one dangerous, is it?" She asked, clearly starting to worry. "Please, Molly. I can't risk Charlie's safety."

Molly noticed that Ariadne didn't mention her husband, but concluded it would be an observation best kept to herself.

"No, I don't think so," Molly answered honestly. Ariadne looked slightly comforted.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to see for myself, won't I?" She concluded, heading down the hall to catch a glimpse of the mysterious visitor.

It was only once her cousin was out of eyesight that Molly remembered exactly why she hadn't Ariadne to go to the door in the first place. Various occasions of Sherlock's form of "greeting" flashed through Molly's mind—"_Afghanistan or Iraq?", _"_You've put on three pounds"_, or the spectacularly blunt "_Gay"_—and Molly knew that he'd see her cousin's pregnancy as clear as he saw the nose on her face. Worse yet, she knew that there was no way he would ever keep such a tidbit to himself—and _Arthur _was at the door. Oh dear.

"Ariadne, wait!" Molly called desperately, knowing that if Sherlock was indeed at the door she could kiss her dream of a stress-free vacation goodbye.

* * *

"Sherlock, for the love of God, do _not _piss him off," John pleaded as he rang the doorbell of the attractive and surprisingly suburban house of a supposed criminal mastermind.

"I think I'll just be myself, John," Sherlock replied, seemingly unconcerned. John sometimes wondered why he bothered talking, because no one was listening.

They could make out a figure behind the frosted glass of the door—tall, though maybe a smidge shorter than Sherlock—and hear the lock click. Trying to prepare himself, John had imagined hundreds of ways this dream thief could look, but none of them came close to the man who opened the door.

The one thing he had in common with the many thugs John had imagined was his height—tall but a hair shorter than Sherlock. Everything other than that was unexpected. The man before him was slim and athletic, intimidatingly dignified despite having clearly just finished a workout, and most surprisingly, married, if the platinum band on his left hand was anything to go by.

"Can I help you?" The man standing in the doorway asked, his tone calm though not overly inviting.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my assistant John Watson. I am a—"

"Oh I know exactly what you are. The modern-day Lazarus—or Houdini, I should say. The detective back from the dead who attracts more crime than he solves. But what do you want with me? And who sent you here?"

John handed over the monogrammed stationery Saito had given them, with his address written in Saito's own neat hand. The man looked it over, his hostility abating somewhat.

"About a week ago," John began, trying to ease into the conversation, before Sherlock cut him off, impatient to get to the heart of the matter.

"Nash Clements is dead and Yusuf Rao is missing," he interjected bluntly, intolerant of the "boring parts" no matter how delicate the situation might be.

A situation which, much to John's horror, got much more precarious as a fourth voice joined the conversation.

"Arthur, who is it?" The woman who spoke—clearly his wife, though John couldn't quite catch sight of her—turned the corner into the foyer, revealing a petite, modestly-dressed brunette, a far cry from the femme fatale he had imagined (he realized that he should stop doing that, he wasn't very good at it); but something in her eyes told John she was tougher than she looked.

And then, just when he thought the day had run out of surprises (another thing he realized he should never, ever do—it was just tempting fate) a shockingly familiar fifth voice joined in:

"Ari, wait!"

The master criminal's wife turned around with an exasperated look on her face as Molly Hooper scrambled in, hot on her heels.

* * *

"Oh my god, it _is _you," Molly gasped, her eyes widening like a deer caught in the headlights. She had been trying to stop her cousin, and in doing so hadn't realized that she had followed her right into the foyer, in clear sight of the door—and _Sherlock_.

"Molly?" The consulting detective asked incredulously, as surprised as John had ever seen him.

"Sherlock," Molly acknowledged dumbly, accidentally spurring a chaotic chain of events.

"Sherlock?" The petite wife asked, and John couldn't help but notice a sharp edge to her voice.

"Ari?" The master criminal—Arthur, his wife had called him—hadn't missed it either.

"_You_," the wife hissed, prodding Sherlock's chest with an accusing finger, much to everyone but Molly's surprise.

"Me?" Sherlock responded, sounding almost amused. John noticed how Sherlock's eyes gleefully surveyed the woman's body in a way that could easily be interpreted as shameless ogling. He knew better, of course, but her husband didn't.

"_Mr. Holmes_," he growled warningly. A melodramatic voice in John's head lamented the fact that the cause of his untimely death would be Sherlock leering at the wife of a master criminal.

"Ari," Molly softly pleaded, having no desire to see Ariadne inflict bodily harm on Sherlock on her behalf—especially because if Sherlock laid a finger on her in return Molly was sure his next visit to St. Bart's would involve his dead body on her table. Reluctantly she backed off, moving next to her husband, who put a comforting arm around her shoulders. They both had their eyes narrowed in Sherlock's direction, though for completely different reasons.

"And I'm John," John added, trying to get in and break up the passive-aggressive Mexican standoff that he feared was about to lose the "passive" aspect. "Why don't we try this again?" He paused briefly. _What the hell was he supposed to say now? _"Molly, since you seem to be the only one who knows everyone here, why don't you start?"

He couldn't quite manage to feel bad for passing his troubles to Molly, simply too relieved to have the weight lifted off his shoulders and jet-lagged to notice anything else. Including an earthquake, a unicorn, or his mind quietly eloping with the last of his patience.

"Well…"

* * *

**AN: Part TWO of their meeting will be coming soon, and will include Sherlock flaunting his skills of deduction, Ariadne blushing, and jet-lagged John (possibly) getting a chance to finally sleep...**

**Please REVIEW! I love hearing from you and am more than willing to answer any questions/listen to any suggestions that you have!**


	7. The Wife

**AN: **I'm not terribly happy with this chapter (it's rather information heavy) and struggled quite a bit in writing it. If I think of a way to improve it I'll come back and edit it later. Now, I just want to get past it-the contents of the next chapter are much clearer in my mind. Still, I would love to year your feedback!

* * *

**The Wife**

After Molly had done some brief introductions and John had done some apologizing on Sherlock's behalf ("I wish I could tell you it was Asperger's, but we think it's just his personality") things had calmed down enough to the point where the true issues of Yusuf and Nash could be discussed rationally.

And then Sherlock had resumed looking at Ariadne, glancing between her and her husband with a faint smirk on his face.

John sometimes wondered if the Detective had a death wish. Either way, John didn't want to go down with him.

Molly couldn't believe that she had been chatting with her cousin and drinking tea less than fifteen minutes ago. She also couldn't believe that she ever thought she'd actually get to spend two weeks drinking tea and playing with her nephew.

"Would you please quit staring at my _wife_?" Arthur snapped, seeing Ariadne growing increasingly uncomfortable under Sherlock's gaze.

"Not staring," Sherlock corrected nonchalantly, "observing."

"Sherlock, don't," Molly warned before John had a chance to.

"Tell me, Arthur, were you aware that your wife is expecting?"

The reaction was instantaneous. Molly groaned, Ariadne blanched, Arthur turned to his wife in shock, and John slapped a hand to his face. He was done for.

"Ariadne?" Arthur asked quietly, quite ignoring the fact that Sherlock continued to ramble on.

"—from the slight pallor of the face and the amount of weight gained I would say she's between eight and ten weeks along— "

Ariadne nodded.

"I was going to tell you this morning," she admitted guiltily.

"—Now, why didn't she tell her husband? Good question. An affair? No, they're too 'in love' for that," Sherlock scoffed, "sentiment is such a silly thing."

"How dare you even suggest—"

"I didn't suggest. Quite the opposite. Affairs are the result of unsatisfied carnal desires, which you clearly have no problem with." Sherlock sniffed the air and John had a horrible flashback to his early Sherlock days when the detective deducted Donovan and Anderson's affair through deodorant and bruising of the knees. "You just went out for a run, yet you smell distinctly like your wife's body wash. No one showers before jogging—unless of course, they're not trying to get clean."

Sherlock took a dramatic breath before continuing, glad to finally have everyone's attention.

"Also, take the scarves. Your wife has an extensive collection of scarves, yet you live in a place where it rarely goes below sixty degrees Fahrenheit. While there are clearly sentimental reasons, they also serve the utilitarian purpose of covering the love bites which frequent her neck. So, highly sexual married couple, occasionally forgetful wife who forgets a birth control pill ever now and then, baby should come as no surprise. Why the secrecy then?"

He glanced over Ariadne again.

"How old is your wife? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?"

"Twenty-six," Ariadne corrected.

"Still young. First baby then. Unexpected, didn't know how to tell you," Sherlock concluded, looking pleased with himself, "Congratulations." The last bit was tacked on at the end in response to the "Very-Not-Good" face John was giving him. That was what normal people said in these situations, was it not?

All was quiet for a moment, as no one knew exactly how to react. But then Sherlock, realizing he had forgotten something, spoke up again.

"What did I miss?"

Ariadne's ears perked up as a baby's cry answered his question.

"I'll go get Charlie," Ariadne said quietly, grateful for the excuse and unwilling to look Arthur in the eyes, afraid of what she'd find. _Oh how she wished she had told him sooner…_

Arthur watched his wife walk away, unsure of what to do. He let out a frustrated sigh as she turned the corner. Once she was out of sight, he returned to glaring at Sherlock.

"You _already _have a child. Dammit, I always miss something!" Sherlock berated himself, completely ignorant of the fact he was standing on very, very thin ice.

"I've known you for all of five minutes," Arthur growled, "and you've already angered and humiliated my wife, as well as our houseguest. What is it you want? I have half a mind to end you for jeopardizing my family's safety, so make it fast."

"We have good reason to believe you're in considerable danger," John admitted, speaking up before Sherlock could, "there's a psychopath, by the name of Moriarty—"

"Moriarty?" Arthur scoffed, "you mean the nemesis that the Lazarus over here invented for himself? I've read the papers, and now I'm losing my patience. I want the truth."

"No, really," John insisted, knowing how ludicrous it sounded, "Richard Brook was a ploy, part of a truly evil set-up that could only come from a twisted mind. Moriarty is _real_, and extremely dangerous."

"Look—" Arthur started sharply, before Molly of all people cut him off, putting a tentative hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him. She had never seen him like this before—so venomous, so _dangerous_—and she didn't know what to make of it.

"Arthur, they're telling the truth," she said softly. "I knew Moriarty, I saw it first hand."

"You _dated _him," Sherlock corrected with a scoff. John knew that anyone else would have realized that this was _not the time_ to bring up such things, but Sherlock wasn't anyone else.

"What?!"

Molly groaned with embarrassment as Arthur turned to look at her.

"It was a ploy to get to Sherlock. I didn't know who he really was," she argued in her defense.

"From what I'm hearing, this madman seems to go wherever you are. And now you're here, in _my _house, with _my _family. If we're in danger, I would say it's because of _you,_" Arthur sighed with frustration, "I can't imagine why Saito's sent you here."

"He sent us here because we know exactly what happened to Robert Fischer in 2009, and we're not the only ones," Sherlock said warningly.

Arthur's jaw clenched, and Molly glanced between the two of them, utterly confused but weary of saying anything.

"We're not talking of this out here." Arthur pushed them inside, locked the door, and lead them down the hall to his office. No one had said anything, but Molly knew better than to follow. Instead she went to look for her cousin, knowing that Ariadne needed comforting after her first experience with Sherlock.

And if she was to be completely honest, she had some questions for her cousin as well.

* * *

While John's earlier imaginings had been incredibly far off, Arthur's study fit pretty well with his mental image of a master criminal's home office. It was a large room with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases from one end to the other. At the far end there was a large mahogany desk with expensive leather chairs. There was an old-fashioned fireplace in the right wall, currently unlit. Two burgundy velvet arm-chairs sat on a large Persian rug before it. The orange-streaked dark wood floors appeared expensive, even to John's untrained eye, and all the windows were obscured by heavy floor-length curtains as a defense against any passerby with wandering eyes. All in all, it looked like it belonged in an old manor house, a remnant of a bygone era. The type of place which could either look incredibly cozy or, as it did in this case, intimidating.

Sitting next to Sherlock across the desk from Arthur gave John a sense of déjà vu, bringing to mind an office halfway around the world he had sat in less than twenty-four hours prior. And although Saito was seemingly the more influential of the two men, Arthur made him considerably more nervous. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed as unfazed as usual.

"Who told you about the Fischer Job?" Arthur asked urgently, "how much do you know?"

"We're not your concern," Sherlock drawled. Arthur looked entirely unimpressed.

"I'd rather decide that for myself. Now talk."

"We were investigating the murder of Nash Clements and quickly uncovered a connection to Moriarty. A reliable source with an influential position in the British government alerted us of Moriarty's growing interest in the field of dream-sharing," John explained, knowing that such matters fit Sherlock's idea of "boring stuff".

"Extraction?"

"Not exactly. Something new, which would allow him to enter the subject's mind and control his body—a kind of hypnotized dream-walking state."

"You mean the Caligri compound? It's nothing but an urban legend. PASIVs require stationary users," Arthur snorted, "now why did Saito give you my address?"

"All legends are laced with some truth, and things change—as you should very well know. Inception was supposed to be impossible, was it not?" Sherlock challenged, striking a chord. "Moriarty has this compound. He used it to kill Nash Clements. But it's not working the way he wants, and he seems to think the solution lies in finding a better team. And who better to achieve the impossible than those who already have?"

"How do you know this 'Moriarty' will find us? You couldn't have, without Saito's help. We left that way of life behind almost three years ago, and you two are the only ones who have found us. You and this Moriarty fellow are hardly the only people looking."

"Because he already found Yusuf Rao."

"You can't know that for sure."

"No, but I do know Moriarty. And I will tell you this: he likes playing games. Chances are he's _already _found you, and he's just giving me a chance to catch up, because that's what he does," Sherlock argued with a steely look in his eyes, "and I'll tell you what else I do know for _sure_: the man we are dealing with is ruthless. He does not play fair, and will get what he wants by _any means necessary_."

"Sherlock!" John interjected warningly, with the sinking feeling that he knew exactly where the detective was going, and he didn't like it one bit.

"By now it is safe to say that he knows your weaknesses," Sherlock continued, ignoring John completely, "he will _burn the heart out of you_, and he will do it happily. We are dealing with a man who has strapped explosives to little girls, kidnapped children and forced them to live off poisoned sweets, and blown up old blind women. Do you think your _family _is safe? Because they're not. And I will promise you this: if you ignore my warning, if you do not work with us, your wife and son _will _die."

John was stunned. Even for Sherlock, that was cruel.

"Get out," Arthur warned quietly, trembling with barely controlled rage as he rose from his seat. "GET OUT!"

Seeing the murderous look in his eyes, Sherlock and John did what anyone with functioning legs and half a brain would do: they left.

* * *

Molly had found her cousin trying to calm her son (and herself, she suspected), rubbing his back comfortingly.

"So that's the infamous Sherlock," Ariadne said quietly as Charlie calmed down, before putting him down on the floor to play with whatever struck his fancy of the many toys scattered around the nursery floor.

"Yeah," Molly responded, unsure of what else to say.

"I'm guessing that's why you didn't want me to go to the door?"

Molly nodded.

"Did you know he was coming? Why he's here?"

Molly sighed. "I honestly don't know."

Ariande watched Charlie as he started to build a wooden block tower, her eyes looking suspiciously glassy.

"This isn't how I wanted it to happen, Mols. Why didn't I just tell him the second I found out?" She sighed. "He must be so… so…"

"He didn't seem mad at you Ari," Molly said comfortingly, her words genuine. "He was a bit shocked, I think, and he was right pissed with Sherlock, but not you."

Ariadne smiled sadly. "Well, _I'm _mad at me. But then again, I'm a bit of a hormonal wreck right now, aren't I?"

Molly couldn't help but giggle slightly and nod in agreement.

"Ari?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this probably isn't the best time, but Sherlock started mentioning some things, and…" Molly trailed off, trying to figure out the best way to pose the question on her mind. "How did you meet Arthur?"

"Through work," Ariadne answered a bit too easily, "you know that, Mols."

"But what kind of work? What does Arthur even _do_? Sherlock mentioned something about a… Robert Fischer? And a man named Saito?" Molly asked, trying to make sense of it all.

Ariadne remained quiet, clearly debating what and just how much she wanted to say, so Molly continued.

"But more than anything, Ari, he sounded so…" knowing that she might be approaching a touchy subject, she struggled to phrase it as tactfully as possible, "so _dangerous_. He's not… abusive or anything, is he?"

"God no!" Ariadne gasped, horrified that Molly would even suggest such a thing. "Arthur would die before doing anything to harm me, or Charlie, I can promise you that."

"I know you're hiding something from me," Molly admitted, "I think I've known it for a long time, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. And I hate being so insistent, but please, _please_ tell me what's going on. You and Charlie are the only family I have left, and I don't want to lose you."

Ariadne sighed, wringing her hands as she debated what to say.

"We were planning on waiting a few more years before telling you," she admitted, "but I guess that's another plan Sherlock's blown to hell."

"Tell me what?" Molly prompted, seeing her cousin's hesitation.

"Everything," Ariadne said cryptically, "and it's probably still not safe to be talking to you about this, but I'm not going to keep you in the dark any longer."

Ariadne hesitated, looking Molly directly in the eyes, occasionally glancing down at her son. "You _must _keep this in absolute confidence, Molly, I mean it. Our lives depend on it. I wish they didn't, but it's true. Can you do that?"

Molly nodded.

Ariadne lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet. Molly followed suit.

"I guess I'll start at the beginning then," Ariadne began, pulling Charlie into her lap. "Remember that job I said I got through Professor Miles four years ago?"

"I believe so," Molly replied, brow furrowed in confusion. _What on earth does that have to do with anything?_

"I might've lied about exactly what entailed. Well, actually, I never told you any _lies, _I just never gave you the whole truth." Ariadne was rambling, something Molly knew she only did when she was nervous or embarrassed.

"What does that mean, Ari?"

"The job, well, it wasn't, strictly speaking, legal," she admitted, remembering how Cobb had told her the exact same thing four years ago, and how she'd been amused, completely unaware as to how drastically her life was about to change.

"You're worrying me now. Just _tell _me," Molly insisted.

"I'm trying!" Ariadne paused, calming herself. Upsetting Charlie wouldn't do anyone any good. "It's just… well… there's this thing called shared dreaming."

"Shared _dreaming_?" Molly repeated, beginning to question her cousin's state of mind more than her safety.

"It sounds crazy, I know. I thought so too—but you wanted to know, so I'm telling you—and it's _real _and wonderful and… dangerous." A pause. "It was invented for the US Military as a training program—the ultimate simulation. Soldiers could shoot and stab and kill each other and _feel _it, because pain is in the mind, and then wake up."

"How does it work?" Molly asked, trying and failing to visualize such a thing.

"There's this device called a PASIV—looks just like a briefcase—which contains a bunch of extendable intravenous tubes connected to a central chamber. In the central chamber there's a special kind of sedative which brings all those connected to it into a communal dream. The first person who hooks in is the dreamer—they create the layout, the second person—who receives some sort of secondary sedative, I believe—is the mark. They populate the dream with their subconscious. And then all the other members of the team hook in." Ariadne realized her explanation left quite a lot to be desired. "Does that make any sense?"

"Yes. Still hard to believe though. But what's a mark? Why would Professor Miles get you involved in this? I thought you were one of his favorite students?" The questions tumbled from Molly's lips before she could stop them.

"I was. He really didn't want to involve me, or anyone else for that matter, but he couldn't see any way around it. You see, his daughter had been involved in dream share, and it was too much for her in the end. She lost track of reality and killed herself, convinced she was still dreaming. Her husband—his son-in-law—ended up taking the blame for her death, and he was forced to flee the country, unable to take their children with him. But nearly a year after what he feared would be a permanent separation he was approached by an extremely powerful businessman who promised to return him to his children and clear his charges as payment for a very particular job.

"Now, the most common use of dream-share technology is something called extraction. Basically, you invade the dreams of the subject—usually called the mark—in order to steal information of some sort—ideas, business plans, you get the idea. But the job Professor Miles' recruited me for was different, something that was supposed to be impossible, called inception. Instead of stealing an idea, you have to plant one in the mark's mind. The difficult part is that in order for the idea to stick, it has to seem self-generated, and few believed it possible to fake genuine inspiration. But his son-in-law—Cobb—knew that it might be the only chance he would have to get back to his kids, and Professor Miles did too. So he decided to risk his best student, for the sake of his family."

"Why would you _agree _to such a thing, Ari?"

Ariadne rolled her eyes exasperatedly, remembering all the times when Molly had used the same tone with her throughout their adolescence.

"Haven't you ever wanted to go on an adventure? I trusted Miles. Besides, after I actuallyfound out what Cobb wanted me to do—through firsthand experience, of course—I _did _walk away."

Molly looked at her incredulously.

"I'm serious! I _did _leave, but then I came back a day later."

"What changed your mind?"

"When Cobb asked, I told him it was because I couldn't resist the temptation of dream architecture—which was true. It's amazing, Molly, nothing but pure creativity—no budgets, no builders, flexible laws of physics. But I must admit, even that on its own wouldn't have convinced me to go back."

"Why did you even leave in the first place? I'm surprised anything managed to scare you away."

"Getting stabbed in the chest has a funny way of changing your mind." Seeing the horror on her cousin's face, she quickly clarified, "in the dream, of course. It's the worst part of the job, but there's no way around it. The only way to wake up before the clock runs out is by dying in the dream. Cobb, of course, forgot to warn me about that before hand. Or the fact that the deranged ghost of his dead wife would come at me with a kitchen knife."

"I see," Molly said, unsure of how else to respond.

"It hurt like hell, but when I woke up, Arthur was at my side, trying to calm me down. We hadn't even been properly introduced yet, but I think I already loved him a little bit, even then. Seeing him there, I barely even noticed the pain any more—it seemed worth it to—"

"GET OUT!"

Arthur's booming voice startled Ariadne silent and made Molly jump. Charlie, recognizing his father's angry voice, started to whimper. Ariadne hurried towards the foyer, Charlie in her arms, with Molly following close behind.

They got to the door just in time to see Sherlock and John making their escape. Molly quickly looked to John to gauge the situation by his reaction, knowing it would be much more telling than Sherlock's. He looked extremely troubled, which worried her. Ariadne had headed down the hall, looking for her husband, leaving her alone in the foyer.

Molly decided to follow John out the door to do some investigating of her own.

"What happened?" she hissed through gritted teeth, keeping up with them as they hurried down the gravel driveway (John wanted to get out of shooting range, at the very least, before worrying about calling a cab).

"Sherlock happened. He pushed a few too many buttons."

"What did he say?"

"Sherlock threatened his wife and child, told him that if he doesn't accept our aid they'll end up dead."

Molly's heart dropped to the pit of her stomach.

"Is that true?"

John hesitated.

"Please, John. They're my family too. My _only _family."

"I think Sherlock might have a point. This is Moriarty we are dealing with. Here," he said, pulling a notepad and pen from his trouser pocket, scribbling down a number, and handing it to her. "Mycroft gave us a satellite phone," he offered as explanation, "call if anything changes."

Molly nodded stiffly.

"John!" Sherlock called impatiently, already a good few yards ahead of them.

John sighed, unhappy with how the entire situation had played out.

"You'll call?" He asked, his weariness catching up with him like a tidal wave.

"I promise," Molly vowed.


	8. IMPORTANT NOTICE, please read

**Story Notice!**

I know it's been a while, and for that, I apologize. I still really like the idea I had behind this story, but I am extremely displeased with the execution.

This being said, I have decided to revamp the whole thing. The updated, edited version of the first chapter will be posted within the next few days, and then I will be deleting this old version.

Also, I would love a **beta **or a **co-author** for this-or any of my other stories. Please **PM me **if you have any interest.

Until then,

-actressen


	9. REVISED VERSION POSTED! PLEASE READ

The first chapter of the revised version of this story has been posted under the name _**The Caligari Compound**__. _I would love it if you would check it out! :)

Thanks!

-actressen


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